


What needs to be done

by timegoesby



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassins & Hitmen, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-17 23:01:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7289500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timegoesby/pseuds/timegoesby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I don’t know what gave me away. One moment I’m walking behind him, creeping closer every second, and the next we both stopped in the middle of the road. I hold my breath, there’s nowhere to hide. I hold my knife up as he turns around, a confrontation is inevitable by this point. I get ready to lunge forward as he removes his hood with one hand to get a better look at me--and I see it. I see him.</p><p>I freeze.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What needs to be done

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old thing I had laying around and I decided to post it because why the heck not. It's a pretty clichéd scenario but I really enjoyed writing it, hopefully someone will enjoy reading it too.

In all my time working as a hired killer for the Military Police I’ve never once failed in my job. I’d like to say that was an achievement, but I take no pride in it. 

After the fiasco involving titan shifters just before we graduated from the academy, the Scouting Legion fell apart. Well, I say fell, more like it was _torn_ apart by orders of the higher ups. All the members were forced to leave, those who refused were removed via more violent methods. In the end, everyone left because they were either fed up with the constant persecution or too scared for their own safety.

As for us? Well, all the trainees involved in any way with that event were denied access to any of the remaining military branches, the reasoning behind this being that if titan shifters were able to infiltrate our ranks so easily, who’s to say they didn't have any inside help? They were afraid we had helped them, or that we’d been influenced by them. Either way, in their eyes, we were all accomplices.

We were jobless, and regarded as traitors by our own people. Around a hundred cadets fresh out of the military that were as useful alive as they would've been dead. It was mostly this situation that lead to some of us looking for alternative career paths, after all, we had gained valuable skills during our training that could be put to “good” use by a number of people that required them.

That is how I came across my current job.

I’m not supposed to know who I’m really working for, but I’m not stupid. I know my orders are coming from high up and, judging by the people I target, they want disruptive influences removed quickly and quietly. That’s how I came to the conclusion that I must be working for the MP, after all, what kind of government wouldn’t take advantage of a situation like this? Paying desperate, ill-reputed soldiers to do their dirty work, so they can have someone to blame if things go sour doesn’t seem like the most noble thing a government could do, but it’s not like I ever had high expectations. My job is to get rid of those who may or may not pose a threat to the order of our society, and I’m fine with that.

I did feel remorse at first, but then I remembered that everyone treats me like a murderer anyways, so what’s the point in acting like I’m not one? Besides, as long as I’m useful to them I can almost guarantee my survival, at least until the next assignment. I know there are others like me out there, I wouldn’t be surprised if one day I found one of my fellow squad members with a blade against my throat. We all do what needs to be done.

Onto my current assignment.

I never get the names of my targets. Just a very basic general description and a place where I will meet them and execute my orders. This one tells me I’m looking for a brunette male in his early twenties, in a secluded area just northwest of the Wall in just a couple of hours, my orders are to kill and dispose of the evidence quietly.

I wonder what the poor bastard did to piss these people off, the message sounds pretty urgent.

I make my way to the meeting place in order to arrive early. It’s better to get a sense of your surroundings, to see what course of action would be best for the situation. Luckily for me, this is a pretty deserted area. Seems like we’re going to be alone.

I decide to stroll around and find another vantage point from which I could see my target approaching. Just as I get ready to get going I spot movement from the corner of my eye, and I freeze.

There is a figure wandering slowly around the streets, they seem to be observing their surroundings. They’re wearing a cloak, but from their gait and their build I can safely assume I’m looking at a young adult male. My target is here.

 _He’s here early,_ but then again so am I.

Maybe the people I get orders from know about my habit of scoping out the area before the time of the meeting and decided to loosen up their estimated time of arrival. Either way, something about the way he moves calls my attention, almost as if it was familiar. I decide to observe him for a bit before I move in to finish the job.

I estimate a couple of minutes passed before he straightens up and looks around. I still can’t see his face from underneath the hood but it seems like he was looking for something, and he didn’t find it. It’s only a matter of seconds before I realise that he is leaving.

I got distracted observing my target, idled for way too long. I have to act now or he’ll enter a more populated area, and then I’ll be in deep trouble. I take a blade out from my pocket and quickly follow behind him.

Stabbing a man from behind is a cowardly move, I know, but over time I’ve found that is better to think of myself as a coward than to have to face the horror of my own actions. I don’t want to see the fear on his face when he realises there’s a knife in his throat, or sticking out of his midsection. I don’t want to see his pleading eyes as the life is slowly drained out of him. I don’t want to hear his dying breath, or to know if he had any dying words. I don’t want to know.

I’m better off not knowing.

I don’t know what gave me away. One moment I’m walking behind him, creeping closer every second, and the next we both stopped in the middle of the road. I hold my breath, there’s nowhere to hide. I hold my knife up as he turns around, a confrontation is inevitable by this point. I get ready to lunge forward as he removes his hood with one hand to get a better look at me--and I see it. I see _him_.

I freeze.

My muscles are locked in place. My heart, after having skipped a beat from the initial shock, is now racing a hundred beats per minute. I can barely breathe.

I shouldn’t be surprised, I knew it was going to happen sooner or later. I knew these bastards would start sending me against the people I knew and trained with, my friends. I knew and I was prepared for the possibility. I just never expected it would start with _him_.

“Jean…” it’s barely a whisper, but it feels almost like a scream against the deathly silence.

“Marco?” I can barely form words, this is unreal.

He stares back at me with shock in his features, pale and still. Neither of us moves.

After what feels like an eternity, I lower the hand holding my blade. I didn’t feel myself dropping it, but I heard the loud clang of metal against stone.

_I can’t do this._

He takes a few tentative steps forward, when I remain locked in place he crosses the remaining distance between us. My eyes are fixed on him the whole time.

When he reaches me, there’s a sadness in his eyes I’d never seen before. I want to look away, but something about it keeps me fixated.

“Jean, why--what are you doing here?” He’s still whispering, almost as if he’s afraid someone would hear our conversation.

“I…” _was sent here with orders to kill you._ My throat closed up.

 _I can’t do it._ He’s waiting for my answer.

 _Please leave._ I don’t want to see him go, but it’s the only chance we’d have of survival.

“Marco I… you have to--” there is a clattering noise from an alleyway behind him, his eyes widen in terror as he looks in the direction of the noise.

When he looks back at me there is a different emotion in his eyes that I can’t quite place. It’s a lot like sadness, and like fear. It doesn’t look right on him.

“Jean…” he whispers my name again, and bends down to pick the blade I dropped.

“I won’t do it,” I say as he examines the blade, “I won’t kill you.”

I don’t know why, but hearing this makes him look incredibly sad.

“I’m--” his breath hitches “I’m so sorry.”

I don’t know why he’s apologising, _I’m_ the one who almost tried to kill him.

“I don’t understand.” my tone matches his now, that barely audible whisper he’s been talking in.

He moves one hand to cup the side of my face, slowly, gently, as if he were holding something precious.

I really don’t understand.

“Please, I just…” the sentence dies down. His face is so close to mine I can feel his rapid breathing. Why is he so nervous?

“Jean, I am so, so sorry.”

I search for some sort of answer on his eyes, his expression, I find nothing.

I’m about to ask again when I feel a stab of pain in my lower ribs. It feels cold at first, but then warmness starts seeping into the area. I look down and see blood staining my clothes red, my blade protruding from my body, and Marco’s hand holding it in place.

I don’t know what I expected.

I look up to him, hoping for an explanation. His eyes are red and he is looking at me with an intensity I’d never witnessed before. His left hand is still resting on my cheek, his right is still holding the blade.

I can feel myself getting lightheaded. Marco must’ve seen it too, he lowers me to the ground carefully and rests my head on his knees, moving his right hand to the base of my neck, pressing his forehead against mine.

“Do you hate me?”

Surprisingly, no.

“Don’t… worry.” Forming complete sentences is proving to be very difficult, all my muscles feel heavy and extremely weak.

I somehow manage to move my hand so that it’s resting on his head, he closes his eyes against the contact.

“I’m sorry.” Whether he said that or it was just my imagination I’m not sure. I can feel myself slipping away.

My eyes close.

My breath becomes shallower.

My hand falls from Marco’s head.

At some point though, I feel someone else standing over us. I think they’re talking to Marco. I can’t distinguish the voices, nor understand the conversation, but two words in particular jump out at me from what the other person is saying.

“Good job.”

Of course.

It makes sense, why he was so quiet, so paranoid, why he apologised to me. Now I understand what the look on his face was, a mixture of resignation, determination, sadness… some of the feelings I used to see painted on my face during most days, but amplified exponentially by the severity of the situation. From the moment I confronted him, only one of us would walk away alive. I dropped my weapon; gave up the fight before it even started.

I don’t blame him, if I’d been in a similar situation I would've probably done the same, used the other’s weakness to my advantage--to survive. But I didn’t know. I didn’t know and I wasn't prepared, and there is no way I could ever kill Marco.

The only thing I resent is that my last moments with him have to be so dreary, in a cold dirty street and his sad face being the last thing I remember. I’m glad it was him though, and I’m not quite sure why. I don’t think my pride would be able to take it if it had been someone else, if I’d lost in a struggle instead of being unaware I was living my last moments.

I’m glad he’ll be able to walk out of this one, that he was able to live to see one more day because, you never know, maybe tomorrow things will be different. Only he will be able to know for sure, I’m a little jealous… but I really don’t blame him.

We all do what needs to be done.


End file.
